


Red Cross

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doctors & Physicians, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4003363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy is perfectly happy being a law-abiding physician with a weakness for cupcakes. </p><p>No one else seems to understand this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Cross

“So, I’ve got this friend…”

 

Foggy looks warily at Claire. The woman is smiling at him, a little too wide and desperate. She’s also holding a cupcake, one of the big ones with sprinkles from Foggy’s favorite mom-and-pop bakery.

 

The cupcake’s pretty clearly a bribe.

 

“You’re not trying to set me up again, are you?” Foggy asks her cautiously. “Because I just have to say, I’m pretty sure I’m going to need years of therapy from the last one.”

 

“Marci’s just a little intense.” Claire defends weakly, and Foggy snorts.

 

“Marci was a she-demon sent from hell to punish me for past sins.” He corrects her, frowning. “So, you _are_ trying to set me up?”

 

“No!” Claire assures him hastily, and then winces. “Well, not on a date.”

 

“So, what, for a crime? Because let me tell you right now, I’m too pretty for prison.”

 

“No crime either.” Claire promises, and then winces _again._

_“_ Whoa, what the hell is that face?” Foggy asks, taking a step back. “That is the lying face! You’re seriously going to make me take the fall for whatever nefarious deed you committed during your off hours?”

 

“It’s not a crime.” Claire argues. And then winces. Again. “Well, it’s a little shady, legally, but it’s the right thing to do.”

 

“Uh, no.” Foggy tells her. “Obeying the law is, by definition, the right thing to do.”

 

“Not in this case.” Claire replies earnestly. “And _you_ wouldn’t be committing a crime anyway.”

 

“Yeah, see, and then you put emphasis on the ‘you’ and your whole argument kind of falls apart.” Foggy drawls slowly. “Because the emphasis on the ‘you’ implies that while I would not be actively committing a crime, I would be aiding and abetting someone who is.”

 

Claire blinks at him.

 

“You should have been a lawyer.” She informs him bluntly, and Foggy laughs.

 

“Are you kidding me? People hate lawyers.” He shrugs, picking at the sleeve of his white doctor’s coat. “Besides, I’m good at my job. I like helping people.”

 

Claire nods earnestly, and Foggy realizes that he’s just made a grave error.

 

“Exactly.” Claire says triumphantly. “And this would be helping people. It would be helping a lot of people.”

 

“But it’s not legal?” Foggy checks, and Claire bites her lip.

 

“Not the way he does it.”

 

Which, no.

 

“Nope, no way, not happening.” Foggy says, making an X with his hands. “No criminals. Criminals equal bad.” He snorts. “Besides, what would this mysterious criminal even want me to do? Hide the bodies?”

 

“He’d want you to do your job.” Claire offers quietly. “Help him.” She hesitates. “He… he needs help, Foggy.”

 

“Why does he need help?” Foggy asks carefully, intrigued despite himself. Claire sighs, tugging at her necklace absently in a nervous gesture.

 

“He gets hurt.” She tells Foggy softly, and Foggy notices with a pang of sympathy that Claire sounds genuinely distressed. “A lot. He needs someone to take care of him.”

 

Foggy swallows. He doesn’t want to hear this, this is not good, this is _bad,_ because if Claire’s saying what he thinks she’s saying…

 

“You’ve been doing it, haven’t you?” He asks hoarsely. “You’ve been helping him.” He runs a hand through his hair, a little panicky. “Jesus, Claire, don’t do this to me. I should be turning you in. You’re offering a criminal illegal medical care. That’s not—I should be turning you in.”

 

“You won’t, will you?” Claire asks, and she’s trying to sound confident, Foggy can tell, but instead she just sounds terrified. Foggy considers.

 

Claire’s the best nurse they have. She’s smarter than pretty much all of the doctors, and she has a warm but no-nonsense bedside manner that charms all the patients. She pulls double shifts without complaint, and she brings Foggy cupcakes even when she’s not trying to bribe him.

 

Claire _loves_ her job.

 

“No, of course I won’t.” Foggy sighs. “This is so, so wrong, but if you helped him, you must have had a good reason.” Claire nods eagerly, relaxing a little.

 

“Foggy, he’s a great guy. He’s just trying to do what’s right. You won’t regret it, I swear—“

 

“Whoa, I said I wasn’t going to turn you in! I never said I was going to _help_ you.” Foggy yelps. “I’m not built for a life in crime, even if it’s to ‘do what’s right’. Come on, Claire, you know me.”

 

“I know that you’re smart.” Claire tells him softly. “You’re smart, and you’re brave, and you’re a damn good doctor. And I know that even though you like to pretend you don’t care, deep down you still want to ‘do what’s right’ too.”

 

Damn it.

 

“Okay, I will give you a chance to _explain._ This isn’t me saying yes, this is me saying that I will _think_ about it, if you offer an incredibly persuasive argument.”

 

“Absolutely.” Claire agrees, looking relieved. “It won’t be for long, just until I know Mom’s okay.”

 

Which might take a while, Foggy thinks sadly. Mrs. Temple was recently diagnosed with a nasty case of bacterial pneumonia, and she’s getting sicker by the day. Claire’s constantly walking around in a daze, and if she’s been balancing illegal medical care on top of that, she must be being run ragged.

 

“Right.” He agrees, because he wants to believe that Claire’s right that it won’t be long, Claire will be coming back and everything will be fine. “Okay, so who is this guy?”

 

Claire gives that nervous, desperate smile again, way too wide.

 

“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” She says quickly, and shoves the cupcake into his hands like that will make it better.

 

“No chance in hell.” Foggy tells her flatly.

 

An hour later he’s full of cupcake and regret.

 

Yes.

 

* * *

 

For a few days after Claire’s gone, nothing unusual happens. Foggy is tentatively hopeful that maybe the guy’s less suicidal than Claire claimed. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe the guy’s wised up. Maybe he’s about as eager to meet Foggy as Foggy is to meet him, which is not at all.

 

Then Foggy walks into his apartment, and he hears someone breathing.

 

“I never in my life thought I’d say this, but I hope you’re the Devil.” Foggy tells him dryly, reaching for the softball bat he keeps by the door just in case.

 

“And I hope you’re Dr. Nelson, or else things are about to get rather awkward.” The man drawls—definitely a man, wow, deep voice, smooth too, _nice._

“Foggy.” Foggy tells him, hand still edging towards the bat. “No one calls me Dr. Nelson if they’ve known me for more than a minute.”

 

“I haven’t known you for more than a minute.” The man—Devil, the _Devil,_ why is this Foggy’s life, points out sardonically, and Foggy huffs.

 

“Yeah, well. According to Claire, we’re going to be getting to know each other _real_ well in the near future.” He mutters, thinking about how often Claire had mentioned the Devil showing up. “So, is this a social call or do you actually need my help?” He glances around, trying to pinpoint the man’s location. “And could we please turn on the lights? I get that you are the night or whatever, but I’m not part bat.”

 

“Go ahead.” The Devil says, sounding amused. Foggy rolls his eyes—smug bastard, he can tell already—and reaches for the switch.

 

He wants to say something snarky and cutting, but then he gets a good look at the Devil for the first time and he finds all thought of witty banter leaving his head. In fact, only two thoughts remain in his head at all:

 

One: Hot. Wow. _Hot_. Claire did not mention that fact that this guy would be probably the closest thing there is to a god on earth—Mars, maybe, judging from the red of his suit. He looks fierce and maybe a little feral from his wary stance, but also elegant, strong shoulders and long legs. Foggy can’t see his face under the mask, but he’s willing to bet a lot of money that it’s just as amazing as the rest of him.

 

Two: Claire was right. The guy _is_ suicidal.

 

“Jesus, is your _arm_ broken?” Foggy asks incredulously, seeing the way the man is holding it at an odd angle. Foggy steps away from the bat and towards the man, who tenses, then shakes his head.

 

“No, I’m just using it to support my ribs.” The Devil says helpfully. “Which might _actually_ be broken.” He says it absently, clinically, like he’s reading about it in a medical text instead of feeling it in his body.

 

“Fantastic.” Foggy mutters to himself. “He’s a suicidal _robot_.” He hurries past the man, who tenses again and moves a little ways away. “Sit. I stocked up on the things Claire told me to, lucky you.”

 

He grabs the kit, more medical supplies than he’s ever had in one place outside of the hospital, and heads back to the living room. The Devil’s still standing there, frowning in Foggy’s direction.

 

“Oi, sit. Claire says you’re a ninja, but in your current condition I could probably take you.” Foggy informs him bluntly. He’s not actually sure it’s true—this guy is _built—_ but confidence is key here.

 

The man remains motionless a while longer, just watching Foggy, before he nods tightly and settles himself on the leather couch that cost Foggy a month’s paycheck. He runs a hand carefully across the material as he sits, and Foggy wonders vaguely if Claire’s Devil has a weird leather fetish—actually, that might explain the costume.

 

“So, what’s the situation? I mean, obviously I’m going to be doing a full diagnostic, but if there’s anything life-threatening, now would be the time to tell me.” The Devil shakes his head sharply.

 

“I don’t need a checkup.” He tells Foggy tersely. “I just need you to take a look at my ribs, and maybe my leg.” He shifts to offer it for inspection, and it looks like—

 

“Is that a _bullet hole?”_ Foggy asks disbelievingly. The Devil makes an offended sound.

 

“It’s just a graze.” He protests. “I dodged.”

 

“You dodged.” Foggy repeats slowly. “Well, now I just feel silly. It’s just a bullet _graze.”_ He rolls his eyes and goes to kneel down in front of the man. “You’re the kind of person who thinks that sepsis is just the sniffles, aren’t you?”

 

“I’ve never had sepsis.” The man muses thoughtfully, then hisses when Foggy pokes at his ribs a little harder than strictly necessary.

 

“Something to look forward to.” Foggy tells him sweetly, then prods a little more gently, running fingers carefully over the site. “No, probably not broken—bruised for sure, maybe cracked but there’s not much we can do about that.” He very valiantly ignores how rather deliciously toned the man’s torso is, because Foggy is a professional, damn it, and this guy’s a criminal.

 

“Oh, that’s much better than I thought.” The man says brightly. “I can probably do this myself, actually—“

 

“Yeah, no.” Foggy tells him flatly. “Your leg’s still messed up, and I am not letting you stitch yourself up. You’d probably end up sewing it to your suit.”

 

“I’m actually quite handy with a needle.” The man protests rather childishly, and Foggy huffs out a breath, blowing a piece of hair out of his eye. Annoyed, he reaches for the scrunchie he keeps around his wrist for emergencies like this. He pulls his hair back into a low ponytail and reaches for the kit.

 

“I don’t care if you’re the world champion of cross-stitch, you are not sewing up your own leg.” He tells the man firmly. “Can you take your pants off, or does that thing all come off in one piece?” He considers. “You _are_ wearing underwear, right?”

 

“Yes.” The man drawls, sounding greatly entertained. Foggy blinks at him.

 

“Yes to which question?" He asks, voice a little high. If the man is saying yes to the one-piece bit, and not to the rest…

 

Foggy swallows.

 

“Underwear.” The man says lightly. “So if you could just look away for a second.” Foggy scoffs.

 

“Seriously? I’m a doctor—I’ve seen more people strip than a pole dancer.”

 

The man actually seems a little taken aback at this. Foggy can’t see his eyes—strange, ridges over the eyes but no holes, Claire said he was blind but Foggy didn’t buy it until now, what with the confident way the man moves. The man’s mouth is slightly agape. A moment later, he laughs. Foggy flushes a little because that’s probably the cutest laugh he’s ever heard. Stupid charming devils.

 

“Fair enough.” The man chuckles, and then he just reaches down and wow, he has no shame, does he? Doesn’t even pause between shoes and pants, strips them off in one fluid movement and places them on the couch next to him. “You going to start any time soon, or did you change your mind?”

 

Foggy realizes he’s been gaping for a few seconds.

 

“Uh, right.” He says, shaking himself. Not is not the time for cultivating a crush, he scolds himself. There is no good time to be cultivating a crush on this particular man, but even if there was, _now_ would not be it. He snaps on his gloves. “Do you need something for the pain?”

 

The man shakes his head.

 

“No, I’m fine.” He says easily, and Foggy snorts.

 

“Suicidal robot.” He repeats under his breath. “Okay, don’t come crying to me later. I can’t stop halfway through to hold your hand.”

 

“Thank you for the warning,” The man says, and he just excels at smug, doesn’t he? Foggy rolls his eyes, refusing to encourage the man. He’s careful threading the needle and pushing it in, because despite his bravado he doesn’t want to hurt him any more than he has to.

 

The man’s incredibly stoic, not even flinching when Foggy finishes the first loop. Foggy sees all along the man’s leg, more and more marks and little scars. He’s done this before, so many times that some of the scars run together.

 

“You’re really used to this, aren’t you?” He murmurs, and his voice comes out a little sadder than he’d intended. He can’t help it; he hates the thought that anyone could become so used to getting stitches, to broken ribs, to _bullet holes,_ that it just doesn’t register.

 

The man shrugs, but Foggy sees the little bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.

 

“I’m getting to be.” He agrees slowly, and Foggy sighs, looking back down at his hands.

 

“Claire says you get hurt ‘doing your job’. She didn’t… she didn’t sound like she liked your job very much.” The Devil snorts softly.

 

“I’m not too fond of it myself.” He tells Foggy with a bitter note to his voice. Foggy pauses, looking up at him again.

 

“If you don’t like it, then why do you do it?” He asks gently, and the man’s shoulders tense for a moment, then slump.

 

“Because someone has to.” He says quietly. “And no one else will.”

 

Foggy keeps sewing. Someone has to.

 

* * *

 

The man leaves as soon as Foggy’s done, slipping out with barely more than a murmured thank you. Foggy blinks after him, then sighs and gathers his kit. It’s entirely pessimistic, but he restocks it the next day.

 

He’s glad he did, the next week.

 

“You’ve still got the stitches from the last time!” Foggy chides harshly, but he makes sure his hold is gentle when he helps the man in _from the window,_ what the hell is wrong with this guy?

 

“They held.” The Devil tells him gratefully. “They’re very good stitches.” Foggy laughs a little hysterically.

 

“They’d better be, since you’re about to get two dozen more of them!” He snaps, leading the Devil to the couch. “Do I even want to know what you did to get those?” He gestures to the long scratches along the man’s arm and the leg that Foggy hasn’t already stitched up.

 

The Devil smiles ruefully.

 

“Probably not.” He admits. “And I couldn’t tell you, even if you did.”

 

His smile reveals bloodstained teeth, and Foggy makes a little sound of alarm.

 

“Jesus, is your jaw okay? Your tongue? Any teeth missing?” The man hums, running his tongue along each tooth like he _actually has to check_ if there’s any missing, because hey, why would he have noticed that? It’s not like it would be causing him excruciating pain or anything.

 

“No, I think everything’s fine. Just bit the inside of my cheek.” The man tells him brightly, and his teeth are still red.

 

“Right.” Foggy closes his eyes for a second. “Salt water, you need salt water. Hold on.”

 

He fills a glass with warm water from the tap and stirs in a spoonful of salt, grabs an empty one, and then brings both over to the man who is just standing there like a lump.

 

“Okay, drink from that.” He pushes the glass with water into the man’s hand. “Swish it in your mouth for a minute or so, then spit into that one.” He presses the other glad into the man’s other hand. “It’ll get the blood out, and it should help at least a little to clean the cut. It might sting a little though.” He warns.

 

“Thank you.” The man says quietly, and takes a sip of the water. Foggy shrugs.

 

“Yeah, sure.” He says, a little uncomfortable with the depth of gratitude in the man’s voice. “I’ll take a look at the rest while you’re doing that, alright? You need me to look anywhere else first?”

 

The man shakes his head, still swishing. His cheeks are all puffed up like a chipmunk’s and it’s so ridiculous-looking that Foggy can’t help a reluctant little smile, no matter how worried he is.

 

He prods at the man’s arm and leg (pants just come right off again, huh), then checks the stitches on the other one.

 

“Hey, I’m better than I thought.” He muses, running a finger along the inside of the man’s thigh along the edges of the suture. The Devil tenses under his hand, and Foggy looks up at him. “Did that hurt? It doesn’t look infected, but I can take a closer look.”

 

The man spits the water into the empty cup.

 

“Fine.” He says, voice a little hoarse. “Nothing, it’s fine. How’s the other leg?”

 

“Hmm, pretty good. I don’t think it’ll need more than some bandages.” Foggy muses, running a finger along that thigh too. The man tenses again and makes a little noise. Foggy frowns, blinking up at him. “Seriously, if you’re hurting, you need to tell me so I can fix it.”

 

“I’m fine.” The man repeats. “Just a little sore.”

 

“Oh.” Foggy considers. “I actually took a massage class in college. I can probably help with that.”

 

“No.” The man says quickly, far too emphatic. “No, I’m okay. Just check on the arm and we’ll be good.”

 

“You don’t need to sound so scared.” Foggy tells him, stung. “I’ll have you know that I aced that class. I have magic fingers.”

 

“Uh-huh.” The man agrees faintly, and then clears his throat. “Good, I’m glad, but I just need you to check my arm.”

 

Foggy considers him for a moment. The man doesn’t seem to be lying, although he seems a little nervous. Probably at the thought of a guy touching him, Foggy thinks with a small pang of disappointment. Clearly the Devil is not only uninterested, he’s actually freaked out by the idea.

 

Typical. All the good ones are either straight or taken.

 

“Okay.” He sighs. Well, there go his nebulous dreams of playing sexy nurse. “Keep swishing.” He warns the man, and starts checking the arm. “No stitches here either, look at you.” He praises absently, and gets the bandages.

 

It’s quiet for the rest of the examination, the Devil dutifully swishing the salt water and Foggy not quite sure what to say. He doesn’t want to make the man any more uncomfortable, now that he knows he’s not interested.

 

“Alright, you’re good to go.” Foggy tells him kindly when he’s finally done, patting his hand and moving back. The man nods and stands slowly, stretching and cracking his neck.

 

“Great, thank you.” He tells Foggy gratefully, and he doesn’t _sound_ freaked out. Maybe just not interested after all. Which isn’t that much of an improvement, but Foggy will take it.

 

“My stitches are good.” He tells the Devil deliberately. “They’re good, but they’re not magical. Be careful, okay? I don’t want to have to redo them.”

 

_I don’t want to have to give you any more, either._

The Devil exhales, a little shakily.

 

“I’ll try.” He says quietly.

 

Foggy pretends he believes him.

 

* * *

 

 

The Devil comes back to Foggy two times the next week, and three times the next.

 

“You’re doing this every night, aren’t you?” Foggy accuses as he swabs iodine on the Devil’s arm. The man shrugs, shifting so that Foggy can get to the cut more easily.

 

“I do it when I have to.” The man tells him solemnly, and Foggy snorts.

 

“Which means every night.” He translates. “I barely know you, but I can already tell you’re one of those save-the-world-or-die-trying types. Idiots, the lot of you.” He’s snappish, but only because he’s worried.

 

The Devil’s been careful, or at least he’s been lucky—Foggy hasn’t had to give any more stitches. Still, the Devil comes in all the time with nasty bruises and cuts, and Foggy hates that he can still see the others next to the new ones, not quite faded.

 

No time to heal.

 

“You look ridiculous, by the way.” He tells the Devil earnestly. “Honestly, you can take the mask off. I’m not going to squeal on you—at this point, I’d be an accomplice, and my sense of self-preservation supersedes my sense of duty.”

 

The Devil is willing to take off his pants—the hussy—and also to roll up his shirt hem or sleeves, but he absolutely refuses to take off his mask. Foggy isn’t sure if the guy’s famous or just extremely paranoid, but he _really_ does not want people seeing his face.

 

The Devil shakes his head, staring nobly off into space—well, at least Foggy assumes that’s where he’s staring, since he can’t see the man’s eyes at all through the weird mask.

 

“You just said yourself—I barely know you.” The Devil says softly. “Maybe… maybe in a while. Maybe.”

 

Foggy looks at him. The Devil actually looks guilty about it, which is ridiculous because it’s not any of Foggy’s business who he is under the mask. Actually, Foggy probably shouldn’t know. The less he knows about all of this, the better. There’s only so much you can plead the Fifth to.

 

But Foggy’s a little disappointed too. He’d been hoping to find out if the man’s face was as perfect as the rest of him. He supposes it makes sense—they’ve only met a few times before now, and never for pleasure. There’s no reason for the man to trust Foggy—yet.

 

Foggy wants the Devil to trust him.

 

As if the Devil can sense Foggy’s thoughts, he shifts awkwardly again and scratches at his nose. He opens his mouth as though to say something, then stops and just continues staring into space and frowning.

 

It’s a little pathetic.

 

“So, do the little horns do anything, or are they just for decoration?” Foggy asks, partly to lighten the mood and partly because he’s genuinely curious.

 

The Devil gives a startled laugh.

 

“They strike fear into the hearts of my enemies?” He offers tentatively, and Foggy snorts.

 

“Those stubby little things? They’re not scaring anybody. They’re _adorable.”_

“Really?” The Devil asks, and he sounds a strange mix of surprised, offended and pleased. Foggy nods sagely.

 

“Heck yeah. Super cute.” The Devil looks stunned. “What, no one’s ever told you that before?”

 

“Uh, no.” The man tells him, disgruntled. “It doesn’t really come up much.”

 

“Well,” Foggy tells him lightly, feeling a little better now that the Devil’s actually talking instead of staring into space like a statue. “Now you know.”

 

“Thanks.” The man says, confused like he’s not quite sure he should actually be thanking Foggy. Although he was teasing him, Foggy’s entirely serious—the horns are kind of adorable. Dorky, but adorable.

 

“So, they seriously are just a fashion statement?” He asks, a little incredulous. The man shrugs a little uncomfortably, jostling his arm. Foggy holds it steady again with a slight scolding noise. “Devil horns are the new black?”

 

“Something like that.” The man agrees, smiling. “I thought that I might as well live _down_ to people’s expectations.” _Devil,_ Foggy thinks. They call this man the Devil, and the man’s decided that he might as well be what they want him to be.

 

Foggy doesn’t like it, but he doubts the man wants to hear that. At least not right now. He doesn’t even trust Foggy enough to show him his face—he highly doubts he trusts him enough to take his advice to heart.

 

“Give ‘em hell?” Foggy offers instead, and the man gives one of his stupid, cute little laughs.

 

“Exactly.” He agrees softly. “I’m pretty good at that part.”

 

“Sure.” Foggy agrees absently. “You’re a big bad macho daredevil that doesn’t play by the rules. Now stop _squirming.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Honestly, after the man’s initial refusal, Foggy’s pretty much resigned himself to the fact that he’s never going to know his midnight caller’s name and face.

 

Claire had refused to tell him anything, citing her promise to the man to keep his secrets. Foggy had pressed a little after the first time, or at least tried to—when he’d called her, Claire had sounded so tired, and her voice was thick like she’d just been crying. Foggy spends the next hour telling her the stupidest, silliest stories he can think of to cheer her up, and he doesn’t even realize he missed his chance until he hangs up.

 

The Devil hasn’t offered any sign that he might be changing his mind either. He’s actually a nice guy. Foggy was reluctant to believe it at first, because the guy may be nice but he is also _Trouble_ with a capital ‘T’.After a few excruciatingly awful jokes and hesitant smiles, Foggy can’t deny it anymore—the guy’s pretty much a sweetheart. A suicidal sweetheart, but a sweetheart nonetheless.

 

The Devil’s nice, but he’s probably one of the least trusting people Foggy’s ever met.

 

The first few times he comes to Foggy, he sits rigid as a statue on Foggy’s couch, tensing at every little sound, even sometimes without any sound that Foggy can hear. Hyper-vigilant. Paranoid.

 

After he finally begins to relax, the Devil has taken to walking around Foggy’s apartment while Foggy’s getting the kit, running his fingers over everything, memorizing where it is. He does it every time, and he always gets frowny and suspicious when Foggy moves anything around while he’s gone.

 

The man’s a hypocrite too, because he moves Foggy’s things himself, without asking. Mostly it’s little things, but Foggy comes back into the living room one night to find the man pushing Foggy’s couch closer to the center of the room.

 

“It’s better this way.” The man tells him earnestly. “Easier.” Foggy doesn’t even want to know what’s going on in the man’s head these times so he just rolls his eyes and says nothing.

 

Still, even though the Devil has apparently grown comfortable enough with Foggy to start playing interior designer with Foggy’s things, he never offers anything personal about himself. All Foggy knows about him is that he tells really bad jokes, is as sweet as sugar, is always way too hard on himself, wants to help people even if it means getting hurt himself, has a cute laugh, has a beautiful smile, likes Foggy’s couch in the center of the room—

 

Actually, Foggy knows quite a bit about the Devil. Just not his _name. His face. His story._ The things Foggy is desperate to know.

 

But it’s fine. He can handle it. Sure, _Claire_ gets to know, but that’s cool. The Devil’s known her longer. He knows Claire can keep a secret.

 

Foggy can keep a secret too. Apparently the Devil finally figures this out.

 

Or maybe he’s just desperate.

 

“Okay, head wounds bleed a lot.” Foggy babbles. He’s not even sure what’s wrong with him—he pulls shifts in the ER, he sees a hundred head wounds a week, this one is no different. He takes a few deep breaths, calms himself back down. He needs to concentrate. He needs to do his job, because that’s the point of this. Do his job.

 

The Devil is even more beautiful than Foggy had imagined, even with blood running down his face.

 

He’d been even more beautiful if he didn’t look so scared. Scared and brave—he was desperate, Foggy thinks, but he would have done this soon anyway. He trusts Foggy more than Foggy thought, even though it clearly terrifies him.

 

“Is this okay?” He whispers, and he sounds so unsure that Foggy wants to hug him and never let go. Later.

 

“I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the word I’d use.” Foggy says, being deliberately obtuse. “But you don’t seem to have a concussion, so that’s something. I won’t even dare to hope that you cut it on something sterilized.”

 

The Devil squints, and Foggy can see his eyes, wow, pretty eyes. Hazel, heavy on the brown but just enough green to make them pop with color and life. Very… pretty. Stay vague, don’t start writing a sonnet, at least not now.

 

“Most people don’t sterilize throwing stars, but I guess it’s possible.”

 

“Throwing—okay, great, let’s just err on the side of caution and use disinfectant.” Foggy says, shaking his head hopelessly. “I guess you know where the couch is now, better than I do. Sit.”

 

He practically runs to get the kit, and also grabs one of his good, fluffy towels from the rack in the bathroom. The Devil deserves the fluffy towel, even though blood’s a bitch to wash out.

 

When he gets back, he decides that they’re probably at the point in their relationship where they can sit on a couch together, and so he settles in on the cushions instead of on the armrest as usual.

 

He knows he could let the Devil put pressure on the wound, but he finds he can’t quite get himself to let go of the towel, so Foggy does it instead. The Devil makes a surprised sound, but doesn’t move away.

 

“We can check in a few minutes, see how it’s doing.” Foggy tells him softly, and the Devil nods, slight enough that he doesn’t dislodge Foggy’s hand. It’s quiet for a minute, almost peaceful except for the tension that’s radiating off the Devil.

 

“Don’t you want to ask?” The Devil finally snaps and blurts out. Foggy hums, pulling the towel away for a moment to see if the bleeding’s stopped. Not yet, wait a while longer.

 

 Be patient.

 

“Ask about what?” The Devil makes a frustrated sound, hand clenching on his thigh.

 

“Anything! About why I can’t see, what my name is, who I am.” He scowling, and yet even though he’s blustering, Foggy thinks he’s more afraid than angry. Waiting for another fight. Foggy sighs, pressing the towel back to the Devil’s head.

 

“I already knew you couldn’t see. I sort of assumed it was because you were blind, but please correct me if I’m wrong.” He drawls slowly. “You'll tell me your name if and when you're ready. And I know who you are. You’re the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and you’re my friend.”

 

“Please don’t call me that.” The Devil whispers weakly, and for a terrible moment Foggy thinks the Devil’s telling Foggy not to call him a friend. “I hate that name. Just because I have to be the Devil, doesn’t mean I want to be.”

 

Oh. Thank god.

 

“Well, I don’t really know what else to call you. You didn’t even give me a cool pseudonym to use.” Foggy jibes gently. The Devil frowns.

 

“I…” He pauses, swallows hard. “Matt. My name is Matt.” Foggy smiles at him, and although it starts small it grows quickly to entirely silly proportions. Luckily Matt can’t see it.

 

“Matt.” He repeats to himself happily. “I like it. You look like a Matt.”

 

“Do I?” Matt asks, curious. “What does a Matt usually look like?” Foggy hums, considering.

 

“Well, there’s Matthew Gray Gubler, Matthew McConaughey, and you. So I guess Matts tend to be really, really hot.” It’s not flirting, it’s not. Matt asked. Foggy’s just being honest, because he’s an honest person.

 

Matt makes a startled sound.

 

“Really?” He asks, sounding baffled. Foggy snorts.

 

“Okay, I refuse to believe that no one’s ever told you how hot you are. You cannot spend _all_ of your time running around in a mask.”

 

Matt shrugs abashedly.

 

“I’ve heard it before, just not… not from you.”

 

“Oh.” Foggy blinks at him, a little dazed. Is that a good thing? Does Matt like hearing from him? “Well, yeah. Official seal of approval over here. Objective judgment, you’re hot. You’re pretty awesome too, but we already knew that.” He moves the towel. “And hey, you’re also not bleeding anymore! Tonight is a night full of delightful surprises.”

 

“Yeah.” Matt agrees quietly, smiling slowly. “It is.”

 

* * *

 

After the night that the Devil becomes Matt, Matt comes to Foggy even more than he did before. He’s less cautious too, pulling off his mask as soon as he’s through the window.

 

He always knows where Foggy is thanks to his senses, which are _fascinating,_ medically speaking, but Foggy keeps his questions gentle and unprofessional. Matt does _not_ need someone poking at him like he’s a lab rat.

 

So Matt always knows where Foggy is, and he always gives this ridiculously goofy grin when he finds him. Foggy can see the crinkles around Matt’s eyes when he smiles wide and the way his eyes light up when they unerringly find Foggy, even without his sight. Foggy used to think the smile was mysterious and beguiling when he couldn’t see the rest of Matt’s face, but now he realizes it’s just entirely dorky (and, okay, maybe a _little_ bit charming and lovely and perfect).

 

“Hey, look at that. Your shoulder’s just a little bruised, not dislocated!” Foggy honestly never thought he’d be that cheerful about a bruised shoulder. “I can get you the peas anyway. It must be killing you, if you thought it was broken.”

 

“...Yeah.” Matt agrees, putting on his brave smile. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”

 

Foggy frets accordingly, and goes to get the frozen peas out of the freezer. He’d gotten them for dinner a month or so ago, but discovered that they work much better as an impromptu icepack. They’ve been frosted and defrosted so much by this point that they’d just be mush if Foggy tried to cook them, but he keeps the pack anyway for sentimental value.

 

Foggy presses the peas against Matt’s shoulder and lets him hold it there. He maybe helps Matt hold it there for a moment too long, but he just wants to make sure Matt has a good grip, okay? Frozen peas are treacherous.

 

“So, anything else you’ve got for me? Snake bite? Blaster burn? Dragon pox?”

 

Matt chuckles, shaking his head, then hesitates.

 

“Oh, my other shoulder hurts too.” He amends, and he sounds a little too enthusiastic about it. Does Matt get off on pain or something? Because in his line of business, that would be _bad._ “You should take a look at that too.”

 

“Is that the one you hurt last time?” Foggy asks, already reaching out. The skin is a little too warm until his fingers, but that could be from activity—Matt’s breathing is a little heavy too. “It just looked like a muscle ache then… It feels okay. You’re still really tense though.” He pulls away to grin at Matt. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want a massage? Magic fingers.”

 

 He wiggles his fingers enticingly, wondering how much of the motion Matt can pick up with his senses. He wiggles them even harder and does a little bit of jazz hands, just to be sure he gets the point across.

 

Matt looks entirely terrified at the idea, and Foggy’s just about to roll his eyes and say fine, be a panicky heterosexual and completely miss out on the best massage of your life, when Matt nods jerkily.

 

“Yeah, yeah, that would be… nice.” He says carefully. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

 

“No problem.” Foggy hopes he doesn’t say a little too quickly. Of course it’s mostly to help Matt, but being able to touch those shoulders for an extended period of time? Yum. “It’ll be nice to practice my skills. I haven’t done this since Marci.”

 

“Marci?” Matt asks curiously, as Foggy stands to move around the back of the couch. Foggy nods.

 

“Yeah, Marci. Ex-girlfriend. Well, I don’t know if girlfriend is the right word… Frenemies with benefits, maybe?” He remembers, with a distant horror and regret, the rather amazing sex and rather less amazing… everything else. “You can thank Claire for setting us up. Who knows why she thought _that_ was a good idea. I think maybe she was trying to get me killed so she could take my job. Klingon promotion, you know?”

 

Matt snorts, then tenses a little when Foggy puts his hands on Matt's shoulders.

 

“Just tell me if you want it harder or softer, okay?” Foggy tells him, because he is a horrible person and cannot help but flirt even though he knows it’s hopeless. Matt makes a startled noise and his shoulders jump for a second, but he relaxes them a moment later with what looks to be a show of sheer willpower.

 

Foggy’s going to have to practice some immersion flirting therapy here, because he’s pretty sure he can’t stop himself and he doesn’t want Matt to have an aneurysm every time Foggy teases him.

 

“Right, okay.” Matt says, voice a little high. He clears his throat and tries again. “So, Marci. It didn’t end well?” Foggy snorts, pressing forward and beginning to roll and squeeze his hands in intervals.

 

“Total nightmare.” He agrees. “I mean, probably a good person, deep, _deep_ down, but pretty much a harpy otherwise. A really attractive harpy, but a harpy nonetheless.” He moves his thumbs in slow circles, pressing a little harder to work some of the worst knots out.

 

Matt sighs and leans back a little into his hands. Which is… wow. Matt’s got a blissful little smile on his face, and he’s got his face turned up towards Foggy and _Foggy_ put that blissful little smile on his face.

 

“You’re _really_ good at this.” Matt murmurs, and Foggy squeezes his shoulders once in thanks before continuing his work. “I haven’t felt this relaxed in years.”

 

“Good.” Foggy says a little huskily, because Matt’s voice is breathy and low and it’s causing a little bit of temptation to flare up. Matt’s face is still tilted upwards, and he’s still smiling so happily, and Foggy wonders for a moment what would happen if he leaned down right now and kissed Matt.

 

Matt might flinch, pull away in shock. Foggy already knows how much Matt tenses every time Foggy says something even vaguely flirtatious. Kissing him might be the final straw. He might leave and not come back. Foggy doesn’t know if he could survive that, because he really likes Matt, far more than a doctor should like their patient.

 

More than missing Matt though, he’d have to deal with the knowledge that Matt was getting hurt, and he wouldn’t be going to Foggy because he was uncomfortable around him. Claire wouldn’t be there to provide backup, so Matt would be limping around with no medical care after doing god knows what, and Foggy wouldn’t know if he was hurt, or _dying,_ and it would be all Foggy’s fault for scaring him off and making Matt feel unsafe around him.

 

No. No kissing, no matter how red and sweet Matt’s mouth looks right now. And Foggy could make it redder, kiss-swollen and wet and Matt would push into it with that startled little sound he makes so often, and Foggy would walk back around the couch and let Matt pull him down into his lap, and Foggy could bite that lip until Matt gasped and—

 

No kissing.

 

“I honestly think Claire only set us up because of Marci’s job.” Foggy says after far too long a pause, desperate to find something to distract him and calm him down. Thinking about Marci pretty much does the trick. He thinks his lower parts might actually shrink a little, hiding from the memory of Marci’s treatment.

 

“Mm.” Matt says, giving a pleased little sound when Foggy’s fingers slip up a little to his neck. Little moan, smile, red lips. No kissing. “What did she do?”

 

“Lawyer.” Foggy tells him hoarsely. “I have a serious thing for lawyers. Almost a kink, actually.” Oh god, stop talking about kinks. Now is not the time.

 

Matt freezes, and Foggy frowns. There goes at least half of his hard work. Now he’ll have to do it all over again. He moves his hands back down, and Matt makes a sound that makes Foggy need to think of Marci again to stay sane.

 

“Lawyers.” Matt repeats, sounding a little strangled. “How interesting.”

 

Foggy groans.

 

“I know, I know. It’s weird.” He bemoans, and Matt shakes his head quickly.

 

“No, no.” He assures Foggy hastily, probably regretting his poor reaction earlier. “You can’t help what you like. You like lawyers. You should embrace that.”

 

“Oh, believe me, I have embraced it.” Foggy mutters. “Many times. In many different positions.”

 

“Ah.” Matt says, and it’s more groan than word. Foggy must be better at massages then he thought. He’s tense again, and Foggy pinches him lightly.

 

“Okay, sorry. No more talking about my weird kinks, promise.” He says as casually as he can. “You can relax.”

 

“I don’t mind.” Matt lies, because judging by his posture and choked reactions he minds a lot. “Everyone’s got their preferences. You like lawyers. That’s fine. Good.” He clears his throat. “Why do you like lawyers?”

 

“Wow, you’re just jumping in on the deep end.” Foggy teases, trying to hide his flustered state. Matt says nothing, and Foggy sighs. “I don’t know. They tend to be smart, as a rule. They’re confident. They like a challenge, and a good debate. The best ones have a good sense of humor about their work and other things, and the _very_ best also actually believe that justice is possible and want to fight for it. It’s just… I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Obviously I don’t have very good luck with them, though. It might be time to give up on the dream.”

 

“No!” Matt says, rather loudly. He seems to realize it too, because he winces and bites his lip. “No, you should keep looking. You never know, you might meet one that’s perfect for you.”

 

Foggy blinks, considering. Matt sounds really earnest, and also supportive. Foggy sighs.

 

“I guess.” He says, feeling a little more confident. After Marci he’d almost talked himself out of the preference, but Matt seems pretty sure that there’s some mythical Prince Charming attorney out there just waiting to sweep Foggy off his feet. “It’s a moot point right now, since I don’t know any lawyers.”

 

“Mm-hmm.” Matt agrees vaguely. “But you know, if you meet one. You should give them a chance.”

 

Foggy decides now is probably not a good idea to mention that he’s developed a new kink for dorky vigilantes. He doesn’t think Matt would be so ‘follow your heart’ about that one.

 

“Yeah, maybe.” Foggy hedges. He gets the feeling that the vigilante thing is edging out the lawyer one, but he might have to settle. “Hey, you have anywhere else I should do while I’m back here?”

 

“Nope.” Matt says, already moving away. “No, I’m good. I should get going.”

 

“Sure.” Foggy says, watching him go and mourning the loss of the perfect shoulders. “Let me know if you meet any cute lawyers, okay? I’ve sort of got a craving now.” He jokes.

 

“Uh-huh.” Matt says vaguely, and then he’s gone. He’s practically running.

 

“Weird.” Foggy mutters, staring at the place where Matt was a second ago. “Maybe he just doesn’t like lawyers.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Isn’t this the same shoulder?” Foggy asks when Matt shows up a few days later. He squints at the bruise, which is already fading. Definitely the same shoulder. “It looks fine.”

 

“I think I might have pulled a muscle.” Matt argues. “It’s sore.”

 

Foggy blinks at him. Matt looks entirely earnest, and a little anxious. Foggy shrugs.

 

“Okay. You want the peas again?”

 

Matt shakes his head.

 

“No.” He says slowly, tentatively. “I thought maybe I could ask for another massage. If you had the time.”

 

Foggy glances at the clock.

 

“Sure. I have an hour or two before I have to head in to the hospital.” He looks closer at the bruise. “You sure you don’t want the peas instead? I don’t want to aggravate it by mistake.”

 

“Massage is good.” Matt assures him, relieved. “I’ll let you know if it hurts, but it should be fine. You’re very good at it.”

 

Foggy puffs up a little in pride.

 

“Thank you.” He preens. “I was the best in my class.”

 

“I bet.” Matt compliments sincerely. “So, should I just sit where I was before?” Foggy considers for a moment.

 

“Your shirt’s already off.” He points out. Oh boy is it off. “If you lie down, I can get your back too.” He muses. “I bet you carry a lot of tension there.” Plus he just really wants to touch Matt’s back. “The couch is too small though… How would you feel about my bed? Too weird?”

 

Matt shakes his head, quick and sure.

 

“No, bed’s fine.” He reassures Foggy, already moving towards the bedroom. Foggy follows, pleased.

 

Matt seems more comfortable around him with things like this, not nearly as tense as he was before. Foggy’s immersion therapy seems to be working, because Matt appears to have no qualms about lying in Foggy’s bed and letting Foggy massage his back. Not interested, but comfortable. That’s a good sign, right? Not the sign Foggy wants, but at least he gets to touch Matt’s back.

 

“Cool.” Foggy says, watching Matt already climbing in the bed and lying down on his stomach. Foggy spares a moment to appreciate how _right_ Matt looks there, bare-shouldered and peaceful. _Perfect._ Then he shakes himself and climbs in next to him.

 

He reaches towards Matt’s back, but Matt clears his throat and says cautiously,

 

“It would be better if you were straddling me, right?”

 

Uh.

 

“I guess.” Foggy says, too high and breathy. “You don’t mind?” He’s a little surprised when Matt shakes his head. Honestly, Foggy had expected to be taking baby steps to get Matt okay with this sort of thing, but Matt seems to be all in. “Alright, if you’re sure.”

 

He very carefully climbs over so that he’s got a knee on either side of Matt’s hips. He makes sure that their legs are the only things that are touching, because he does _not_ need Matt in a position to notice if Foggy gets a little too… excited about the massage.

 

Matt sighs at the first touch of Foggy’s hands, already relaxing a little into the mattress. Foggy’s glad he made such a good impression the first time, but Matt sighing like that in Foggy’s bed is not good for Foggy’s health.

 

Clinical, he reminds himself. It’s a treatment. An extremely intimate treatment with a patient that happens to also be a friend that Foggy’s extremely attracted to, but still a treatment.

 

Matt’s shoulders are as firm and lovely as they were the last time, but his _back…_

Smooth skin, elegant arch of spine, cute little dimples at the small of his back. Foggy has no idea how a _back_ can be so gorgeous, but then he pretty much finds all of Matt gorgeous. Why should his back be any different?

 

“Jesus, you’re knotted back here.” Foggy says to hide his drooling. It’s not a lie. “This’ll take forever.”

 

“If it’s too much…” Matt demurs, already tensing to get up, and Foggy pushes him back down.

 

“Are you kidding me? You are not walking out of here like that—I think your spine might actually shatter from the strain. We are doing this tonight, even if I have to call in sick to finish.”

 

Matt argues a little more, but Foggy won’t budge. Matt obviously needs this, and Foggy is _not_ passing up a chance to touch that ridiculously gorgeous back for as long as he can.

 

Matt’s relatively quiet during the massage, although he does give periodic little sighs, and on a few memorable occasions, little happy moans. And Foggy wonders what would happen if he leaned down and followed the path of his fingers with his tongue. Matt’s okay with this much already—maybe Foggy could pass it off as a little-known, avant-garde massage technique.

 

Or maybe Matt would know, and he wouldn’t mind. Maybe he’d give one of those lovely little sighs and rolls his shoulders back a little, push up against Foggy and tell him where to go. Up, down, shoulders, spine, lower, lower…

 

Foggy keeps his mouth shut and where it should be.

 

“All done.” He says, and Matt thanks him quietly and leaves. Foggy bangs his head against the wall and gets dressed for work.

 

* * *

 

Matt comes back three more times for minimal medical treatment, and he asks for a massage every time. He sounds more confident asking each time, but he always gets a pleased, surprised little smile every time Foggy says yes.

 

Like Foggy’s going to say no to all of _that._

Matt seems to love the massages, but he never presses for anything more. Ever. It’s maddening, because he keeps sighing and moaning, stripping easily and lying in the middle of Foggy’s bed like he belongs there. He _does_ belong there, Foggy thinks. Maybe not in the way Foggy wishes for, but in any way that Matt wants.

 

And even though Matt’s obviously not interested, Foggy can’t stop his mind from imagining if Matt _was._ It’s getting worse, an illness with no treatment.

 

Matt would sigh and lean up into Foggy’s touch, and he’d let Foggy go everywhere he wanted to, over every inch of skin twice, three times over. Then, when Foggy was satisfied (never satisfied, he’ll never stop wanting to taste), Matt would roll over. Foggy would still be straddling him, and Matt would grin and pull him down into a kiss.

 

Matt would be the type to kiss slow, Foggy thinks. Wet, a little, deep. He’d be vocal, sigh and moan like he does when Foggy touches him. Little sounds that Foggy could taste, moving his arms around Foggy’s neck. Mouth moving to Foggy’s ear, whispering low and soft,

 

‘I love you.’

 

Fuck.

 

Foggy freezes. He’s not even surprised, not really. He feels numb, removed, like he’s in a bad dream but he’ll wake up soon if he pretends it’s not real.

 

‘I love you.’

 

And that’s different than friendly lust, that’s a whole new playbook. Foggy can’t just shake off ‘I love you’, even if Matt never actually said it, because Foggy _wants_ him to say it, and that’s just as bad.

 

No, it’s worse. It’s worse, because it means Foggy loves _Matt,_ and Matt isn’t interested—Matt’s not even the right _sexuality_ for this. Foggy loves Matt, wants Matt, and Matt… Matt wants a _massage._ That’s it, just a friendly massage, and he doesn’t know…

 

Matt can’t know.

 

“You seem better. Sorry, I really have to get to work.” Foggy says, and he’s still dazed so he doesn’t even sound panicked. Just a dream, just a bad dream. Foggy pulls away and stands.

 

“Right.” Matt says, sitting up a moment later, voice odd. Uncomfortable? “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you late.”

 

“It’s fine.” Foggy says, even though nothing about this is fine. “Just… let yourself out. I have to go. I’ll see you later, okay?” He’s already heading for the door, trying not to sprint.

 

“Yeah.” Matt says quietly, subdued. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

Matt comes the next night, just after Foggy’s gotten off a twenty-four hour shift.

 

“I’m sorry.” Matt says while Foggy’s hanging up his coat. Foggy sighs. Honestly, part of him had been hoping to avoid Matt for a few more days, so that he could get used to this whole hopelessly in love thing. On the other hand, he’s not sure he could survive a few days without Matt. He’s gotten in too deep.

 

“It’s okay.” He says honestly, moving towards where Matt’s standing awkwardly by the couch like he’s not sure he’s allowed to sit down. “What’s up?”

 

“Uh, nothing.” Matt says, sounding incredibly awkward. “I just…I wanted to…” He stops, swallows. “I was just tired. I needed a rest before I went home. I’m fine now, I can go.”

 

He looks miserable, and he _does_ look tired. Foggy can relate. And even though he’s still not quite sure how to handle loving Matt, one thing he does know is that loving Matt means making Matt happy. Taking care of him.

 

“Do you want tea?” He asks kindly. “Having something hot helps me wake up a little sometimes.”

 

Matt looks conflicted, biting his lip. He’s already turned halfway to the window, but at Foggy’s words he turns slowly back around.

 

“I like tea.” He says, smiling uncertainly. Foggy beams back at him, pleased.

 

“Good. Tea it is then.”

 

He busies himself with the kettle so he won’t have to think about Matt biting his lip. Matt settles in on the couch like usual, but when Foggy’s got everything ready and is pouring Matt a cup, he looks up and sees Matt’s not _comfortable_ like usual.

 

He’s sitting there straight and rigid as a board, staring into space. It’s almost as bad as he was the first time he met Foggy. Foggy sighs. Might as well act natural.

 

“So, milk? Sugar?” He narrows his eyes at Matt. “No.” He says slowly. “You’re a honey person, aren’t you? Black tea and honey.”

 

“How did you--?” Matt looks completely stunned, but at least he doesn’t look like he’s going to snap in half anymore. Foggy makes a triumphant sound.

 

“This is my superpower, dude. You can apparently go out and kick serious butt, and I can sense flavor palettes. It’s a skill—I bartended my way through medical school.” Matt raises his eyebrows, looking interested.

 

“So, if I walked into your bar, what would you give me?” Matt asks curiously. Foggy considers, grabbing the honey and bringing it with Matt’s cup. He hands both over, and watches as Matt puts in far too much honey to be healthy before taking a sip. Matt makes a happy noise, and Foggy valiantly ignores it.

 

“I mean, the obvious choice is a Shirley Temple because, well, you obviously have a thing for _red.”_ Foggy starts thoughtfully. “But my first pick? Rum and coke. Something a little dark, a little sweet, elegant in its simplicity.” Way too flirty. Damn it.

 

Matt blinks, and then smiles shyly.

 

“I like that.” He says softly, taking another sip of tea. “Alright, what would you want?”

 

Foggy considers lying. On the other hand, he’s already screwed. He might as well have some fun with it.

 

“Screaming orgasm on my back.”

 

Matt chokes on his tea. He spends a good second or two hacking up a lung trying to get his breath back, and his face is still beet red when he finally stops coughing.

 

 _“What?”_ He gasps out, and Foggy laughs. Worth it, just for the reaction.

 

“Oh man, your _face.”_ He giggles, and Matt turns even redder. “It seriously is my favorite though.” He just can’t help himself. He might as well make Matt suffer with him.

 

“What does that even… what?” Matt asks, looking a bit like his brain has broken. Foggy grins at him.

 

“B.A.C.K.” He explains. “It’s an orgasm made with Baileys, Amaretto, Cream, and Kahlua. On your ‘B.A.C.K’. The screaming just means it’s got vodka in it too, so it’s pretty powerful. Trust me, you’ll feel it in the morning.” Yup, he’s going to hell.

 

“And the orgasm?” Matt asks, strangled. Foggy chuckles.

 

“Oh, that. It’s really trashy. It’s an orgasm because all the stuff in it’s white and kind of thick, so when you drink it… yeah.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Matt agrees faintly. “That makes sense.” He still looks a little traumatized, sort of shocky.

  
And Foggy’s going to hell, he’s going to hell, he needs to stop—

 

“You should try one sometime.” He says casually, and Matt, who made the mistake of taking another sip of tea, starts choking again.

 

“R-Really?” He asks, still breathless from coughing. Actually, he doesn’t look disgusted or anything, Foggy muses. Stunned, yeah, but not disgusted. He wonders how far he can push, if maybe it’s not as hopeless as he thought. And sure, Matt probably doesn’t love him, might never love him, but he could maybe be with Matt and pretend that Matt did.

 

He’s pathetic, but he’s also a little desperate. Even though he hasn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, he’s more alert than he’s ever been, every nerve alight with anticipation.

 

“Actually, I have what I need for it. I could make you one right now.” He murmurs tentatively. Luckily Matt’s smart enough not to have tried to drink any more tea—he chokes on air this time, which is at least less likely to cause him to aspirate. “If you wanted me to.”

 

Matt gapes at him for a few more seconds, and then he closes his mouth and swallows hard. His hands clench at his sides, and he’s tense all over like he’s steeling himself for something.

 

 _Please say yes,_ Foggy thinks desperately. _I have everything I need—I might have everything you need too. Just give me a chance._

“I…” Matt says hoarsely, and he stops and swallows again, licking his lips in a nervous gesture. “I think…”

 

Matt’s phone rings.

 

 _Damn it._ Foggy closes his eyes in pain for a moment. Matt’s already moving away again, standing like nothing’s happened.

 

“I should answer this.” He says quietly, and flips open the phone.

 

Foggy watches as Matt’s face turns blanker and blanker the longer he listens. He makes little sounds of agreement or disapproval, but says nothing else.

 

“Yeah. Okay.” He says finally, running a hand through his hair. “Good.” He hangs up. His face is strange when he turns back towards Foggy. It’s hard to read, the only thing Foggy can decipher being a certain sense of regret.

 

Regret that he didn’t say no? Regret that for a moment, Foggy is _sure_ he would have said yes?

 

“That was Claire. She’s back in town. Her mom’s okay.” Foggy has a moment of sheer relief and joy at the news, but then Matt clears his throat, already moving towards the window like he can’t wait to get out of there. “I won’t need to bother you anymore, I guess.”

 

“What?” Foggy asks dumbly, standing and taking a step towards Matt. Matt takes two away. “No, you’re not bothering me.” He denies. _What are you doing,_ he wants to ask. _You wanted this. Maybe you didn’t want anything else, but you_ wanted _this._ “I like seeing you.”

 

“Yeah, maybe.” Matt says, somewhat nonsensically. He hesitates at the window. “Thanks… thanks for the tea.”

 

“Right.” Foggy says dully, watching Matt scramble out the window like he can’t quite stand to be there anymore. “Tea.”

 

“Tea.” Matt agrees quietly, and he’s gone.

 

Foggy almost goes to mix himself an orgasm. He wants one, and apparently this is the only way he can get it.

 

He makes a rum and coke instead.

 

* * *

 

 

Foggy works in a daze for the next few weeks. He treats his patients, he does his job, but it’s all by rote. He buys bandages at the store without thinking before realizing that Matt hasn’t come back to him, and he might never.

 

He has Claire now.

 

Foggy eats all the lollipops that he’s supposed to be giving to his patients, because he needs comfort food. He does this three times before Claire confronts him.

 

“You’re pathetic.” She tells him sharply, and Foggy crunches the lollipop in his mouth, chewing and swallowing the pieces before answering.

 

“I’ll buy more.” He protests weakly, and Claire snorts, crossing her arms.

 

“You’re pathetic.” She reiterates. “But _he’s_ even worse. All he talks about is how ‘Foggy said this’ and ‘Foggy does that’, and ‘Foggy tells me I’m pretty and laughs at my jokes and has magic fingers and why aren’t you Foggy’.” Foggy winces.

 

“He does not say that.” He denies, and Claire huffs.

 

“He’s obsessed.” She tells him flatly. “And apparently you’ve been flirting with him nonstop, because he keeps moaning about how you don’t feel the same way, you’re just teasing him, what if you know, what if you just like making him squirm.” Claire reaches over and pokes him hard in the chest. “And you’re not that cruel.”

 

“Of course not!” Foggy yelps. “I couldn’t help flirting. It’s impossible not to flirt with Matt! And _he’s_ the one who’s not interested.” Claire glares at him.

 

“What the hell gave you that idea?” She growls, and Foggy blinks at her.

 

“Claire.” Foggy says deliberately. “I told him I wanted a _screaming orgasm on my back,_ and he ran away. That doesn’t sound interested.”

 

Claire glares harder, poking him again.

 

“He thought you just wanted to sleep with him! It broke his heart.” She accuses him, and she sounds furious. “He was _crying,_ Foggy.”

 

“What?” Foggy is stunned. His chest tightens just at the thought of making Matt cry, even if it’s not on purpose. “Of course I didn’t just want to sleep with him. Matt’s _perfect.”_

 

“Matt,” Claire stresses, “is not used to people actually liking him for _him.”_ She sighs, and Foggy swallows.

 

“Loving him.” He whispers softly, and Claire stops glaring, eyes wide. “Loving him for him.”

 

“Oh.” Claire murmurs, and she’s still for a moment before he smiles at him, brightly. “That makes this so much easier. You need to go tell him. Right now.”

 

“I have work.” Foggy protests feebly. “I don’t even know where he lives.”

 

“I’ll cover for you.” Claire assures him firmly. “And I’ll give you his address.” She reaches for his notepad, scribbling something down. “Just… go, okay? He really needs this.”

 

Foggy takes the paper with numb fingers, staring down at the words. This is where Matt lives. Foggy’s walked past the building, walks past it every day on the way to the hospital. He walked past, and he never knew.

 

“Okay.” Foggy tells her, and he starts running.

 

It takes him a few blocks to realize he forgot his coat. It’s freezing out.

 

He keeps running.

 

* * *

 

 

Matt opens the door before Foggy even has a chance to knock. He looks a little wild-eyed, and before Foggy even says a word Matt yanks him inside, slams the door shut, and presses Foggy against it.

 

“It’s okay.” He tells Foggy feverishly. “It’s okay if you don’t… Just let me… it’s okay. _Please.”_

Foggy wants to say something, but Matt doesn’t give him the chance.

 

Matt kisses wet, but he doesn’t kiss slow. He’s a demon, fast and hot, licking into Foggy’s mouth and pushing him harder against the door, tangling a hand in Foggy’s hair and pulling his head to the side, moving lower to attack his neck, sharp nips and bites.

 

Foggy’s so very much okay with all of this, until he feels Matt’s fingers fumbling with his belt.

 

“No.” Foggy murmurs, stopping Matt’s hand, pushing him away a little. “No, Matt.”

 

“No, no, no.” Matt whines, trying to press closer again. “Come on, please. You want me, don’t you? Please.” Foggy shakes his head.

 

“Claire said you thought I wanted to fuck you.” He says bluntly, and Matt flinches.

 

“You—you do, don’t you? Your heart’s going crazy.” Matt says unsurely. “Please?” He says again, like he actually needs to ask, like he’s got to beg for this.

 

“Matt, I don’t want to fuck you.” Foggy tells him softly. Matt shudders, makes a wounded sound and starts to pull away, and Foggy grabs Matt’s shirt in his hand and keeps him close. “Fucking’s what people do when they’re desperate, or horny, or lonely. Fucking’s what people do when they want to slip out of bed the next morning and never think about it again. Matt, I want to be there in the morning. I want _you_ to be there in the morning.”

 

Matt closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. He’s stopped trying to move away, but he’s not moving forward either.

 

“Just the one morning?” He asks uncertainly, and Foggy sighs and strokes his cheek until Matt opens his eyes. They can’t see Foggy, but he’s still watching. Waiting.

 

“Every morning, Matt.” Foggy promises softly. He runs a finger along the swell of Matt’s bottom lip, and he was right—Matt’s lips redden beautiful when he’s been kissed, plush and lovely. “Every night.”

 

And now, finally, Matt’s leaning back in.

 

“Promise?” He asks, breath hot on Foggy’s lips, and Foggy grins at him. Matt wants this too, he realizes giddily. Matt wants to be there in the morning. Foggy moves his hand so he can wrap it around the back of Matt’s neck, pull him closer.

 

“Promise.” He agrees, and then gets a wicked idea. “Seal it with a kiss?”

 

Matt gives a choked, desperate little laugh, and he nods.

 

Seal it with a kiss.

 

* * *

 

Matt kisses fierce and fiery, but his fingers are gentle when they’re carding through Foggy’s hair, running down his body, pressing warm and wet inside.

 

He strokes Foggy with his other hand, and that’s gentle too, but only when it needs to be. Matt takes his time, and it’s both the best and worst feeling in the world because Matt’s touching him, Matt’s looking adoring and a little awed and touching him, inside and out, but it’s not _enough._ Matt’s fingers aren’t long enough, aren’t big enough, warm but not _hot._

“Not yet.” Matt murmurs when Foggy thrusts up with an impatient sound. “Patience is a virtue.”

 

Foggy gives a breathy little laugh.

 

“Yeah, not right now it’s not.” He tells Matt, and Matt hushes him.

 

“Just a little longer.” Matt promises. He stays slow and tender for a few more minutes, teasing, worshipping. Then he smiles, nods, and starts to stroke a little harder, a little quicker. He leans down to kiss Foggy again. Foggy’s a little ashamed by how fast he comes after that, but Matt’s timing the thrust of his fingers and the rhythm of his hand together, and he’s biting and licking at Foggy’s mouth at the in-between places, and it’s too much. He thinks he might scream a little, but Matt swallows the sound.

 

“Your turn.” Foggy murmurs when he finally gets his voice back. He reaches down but Matt shakes his head.

 

“Inside.” He whispers, low and urgent. “Please?” Stupid ‘please’. Matt knows Foggy will give him anything, but he’ll give it even faster if Matt says please.

 

“Good plan. Great minds think alike." He moves a little to get Matt’s fingers deeper, and Matt makes a startled little whine.

 

“Thank you.” Matt murmurs, reverent, and Foggy huffs out a little laugh.

 

“So polite.” He teases, and then gives a mournful little whimper when Matt’s fingers slip out.

 

Matt reaches for a pillow to slant Foggy’s hips up, but Foggy shakes his head and, in about the only move he remembers from his grade-school karate class, rolls himself and Matt so that Matt’s the one under him.

 

“Nuh-uh. I’m on top.” Foggy chides. Matt blinks up at him, looking a little stunned and a lot aroused. Figures, Foggy thinks, rolling his eyes fondly. Of course Matt would be turned on by martial arts.

 

“That will be harder for you.” Matt argues gently, stroking a hand along his side. “Maybe not for your first time.”

 

“Yeah, not my first time.” Foggy informs him dryly, and when Matt’s expression turns stormy, he adds soothingly, “Come on, Matt. I’ve wanted to do this ever since that first massage. I’ve been dreaming about this.” Matt’s hips buck a little so that he just brushes against Foggy’s thighs, and he gasps but he’s not quite there yet. “Please, Matt?”

 

Matt’s not the only one who knows how to beg. Matt’s _easy._

 

“Yes. If you think you can do it, _yes.”_ Matt breathes. “God, you have no idea how much I wanted this.” Matt whispers, and judging by the thick longing in his voice, Foggy wasn’t the only one who was a little too happy about those massages.

 

Matt goes to slick himself up, but Foggy bats his hand away and does it for him. And maybe he lingers a little longer than he needs to, but Matt deserves it for the way he was torturing Foggy before. Payback’s a bitch.

 

He’s sort of glad he lingered when he’s lowering himself down, because Matt is _big_ and Foggy needs all the help he can get.

 

Matt murmurs praises the whole time, stroking Foggy’s tense thighs and rubbing his back, kissing his wrists and telling Foggy how perfect he feels, how much Matt _needed_ this, just a little more, perfect.

 

Matt’s good until Foggy’s all the way down, but the second Foggy settles Matt gives a gentle thrust. Foggy gasps. Hot, thick, more than he imagined.

 

“Jesus.” Foggy mutters. “Okay, start slow. Move with me, okay?” Matt nods eagerly, reaching out to steady Foggy’s hips, cradling them gently. Foggy takes a deep breath and lifts himself up again. Matt moves up perfectly in time, and it takes only maybe three goes before Foggy cries out and has to stop for a moment when stars explode across his vision.

 

Matt grins.

 

“Good to know.” He says mildly, and uses his hold on Foggy’s hips to pull him further down, shifting his hips lazily and more stars and fireworks and heat and _Jesus._

 

Matt stays pretty damn smug until Foggy raises himself and slams back down as quick and hard as he can, leaning down to kiss Matt as soon as he’s low enough, wet and dirty and tugging his hair, not enough to hurt but enough that Matt will _feel_ it.

 

Matt gets a lot less smug after that. He also begs. A lot.

 

Matt lasts _forever,_ long enough that Foggy gets hard again and Matt soothes and strokes him through until Foggy sobs and comes again, so hard it’s almost painful. He tightens enough around Matt in the motion that Matt comes too, a moment later, and he’s gasping and moaning and holding Foggy’s hips tight hard enough to bruise.

 

Foggy’s a little too tired to move, so he just lies there boneless and pliant as Matt cleans them both off with a damp towel and then climbs back into bed.

 

“You’re a cuddler.” Foggy accuses when Matt immediately rolls over and tugs Foggy into his arms.

 

“Apparently.” Matt muses thoughtfully, like he’s never had the opportunity to discover this fact. “Is that okay?”

 

“Apparently.” Foggy mutters, even though he’s actually never been much for post-coital cuddling. It appears his body has changed its mind, because instead of pulling away he’s sighing and snuggling closer.

 

Matt hums happily and nuzzles his hair, pressing a brief kiss to his forehead.

 

“Good.” He murmurs softly, and then a moment later, “…You’re still going to be here in the morning, right?” He actually sounds unsure, which makes Foggy rolls his eyes and sigh.

 

“Yes, Matt.” He promises him dutifully. “I am going to be here in the morning.” He kisses Matt’s neck gently, reassuring. “You are getting a good morning blowjob, and then _I_ am getting a good morning blowjob, and then we are getting breakfast.”

 

“Oh.” Matt says faintly, and Foggy grins and kisses his neck again, sucking at the tender skin a little. “Okay. Good plan.”

 

“I thought so.” Foggy agrees serenely. “Oh, and Matt?”

 

“Yeah?” Matt asks, still sounding a little dazed. Foggy shifts up so that he can brush his lips against Matt’s.

 

“Breakfast’s a long way away. I might need a midnight snack.”

 

The clock strikes twelve. Matt smiles and presses closer.

 

 "Late snack, early breakfast." Matt murmurs, brushing a strand of hair away from Foggy's face. "I have court in the morning."

 

"Uh." Foggy pulls away to blink at him. No way. Not possible. "You're a lawyer?"

 

Matt smirks, nodding. 

 

"I'm a very good lawyer." He agrees mildly. " _Very_ good." 

 

"Well then." Foggy blinks a little more. His brain seems to have flatlined.  _Lawyer,_ Matt's a  _lawyer._ Matt grins wickedly at him, hand trailing down Foggy's back tenderly.

 

"I'd like to take this opportunity to offer some compelling oral testimony." Matt says solemnly, but he can only keep his face straight for a moment before he starts beaming again. "To support my case."

 

Foggy whimpers and his hips thrust forward weakly. Exhausted, but still _very_ interested. Apparently Foggy's lawyer kink is still going strong, and when the lawyer's  _Matt..._

 

"You may proceed, counselor." Matt laughs, bright and happy, and gives him a quick, fierce kiss.

 

"Yes, Your Honor."

 

* * *

 

Claire laughs when she sees them coming.

 

Foggy knows he looks like a mess, hair wild and coat rumpled, a little out of breath and mouth still sensitive and sore from earlier activities. It’s been a long trip to get here. Matt’s been pressing little kisses against his hair and temple the whole time they’ve been walking, keeping Foggy perpetually dazed and distracted. It sort of ruins the illusion of Foggy leading him when Matt keeps making Foggy walk into walls.

 

Matt has an arm wrapped around Foggy’s shoulders, grinning at Claire like a madman—Foggy’s a little afraid he’s going to get dragged off to the psych ward.

 

Foggy hands Claire a box of cupcakes, the big ones with the sprinkles from Foggy’s favorite mom-and-pop bakery. A thank you, and judging by the way Claire smiles she knows it. Foggy beams at her.

 

“So, I've got this friend…”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Screaming Orgasm On Your B.A.C.K really is a cocktail. It is delicious. Seriously, so yummy, and it's a hell of a lot of fun to order.


End file.
